Confessions of a Man from Itabira

I lived for some years in Itabira.

The main thing is: I was born in Itabira.

That's why I'm sad, proud, iron to the core.

Ninety percent iron sidewalks.

Eighty percent iron souls.

And estrangement from all that's porous and communicates in life.

The longing to love, which cripples my work, comes from Itabira, from its white nights, without women or horizons.

And suffering, one of my favorite pastimes, is a sweet inheritance from Itabira.

I brought some presents from Itabira that I'd like you to have: this iron stone, future steel of Brazil; this Saint Benedict of Alfredo Duval, venerable sculptor of saints; this tapir hide that covers the living room sofa; this pride, this bowed head. I had gold, I had cattle, I had farms.

Today I'm a civil servant.

Itabira is just a photo on the wall.

But how it aches!